Summer
by lena1987
Summary: Complete. A tale of a curious witch in the summer of 1997. Hermione Granger discovers that she was wrong, but it won't help her at all. HG/SS. Prequel to: 'Autumn'.
1. Chapter 1

**_Disclaimer:_** _Characters belong to JKR._

 ** _A/N:_** _This is the first instalment of a small series. Beta'd by Banglabou who transformed this into something worth reading. My heartfelt thanks to AdelaideArcher and Ms Anthrop for their input. St. Ann's is a real church in Manchester, though I have transported it to Cokeworth for the sake of spinning a tale._

* * *

 **Summer**

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,  
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,  
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,  
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?  
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out  
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,  
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,  
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?  
O fearful meditation! where, alack,  
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?  
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?  
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?  
O, none, unless this miracle have might,  
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

 _Sonnet 65. William Shakespeare._

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

 _1997, The Railview Hotel, Cokeworth._

The funeral notice was slotted in at the very bottom of the column. If I hadn't been holding the paper so close that my nose was close to touching the surface of the cheap, heavy ink, I would've missed it. I suppose that was the original intention.

Cokeworth's local offering to accompany the Yorkshire Post was a poorly put-together weekly newspaper. Stuffed into the appropriate slots downstairs each Thursday morning, it was mostly filled with regurgitated pieces from the major media printouts, with the exception of a few local tid-bits, otherwise known as Births, Deaths and Marriages. And that was how I found her.

Snape, Eileen (née Prince) was featured in a tiny blurb right at the end of the listings, just underneath Fitzpatrick, Herbert ('No known descendants') and to the right of Mitchell, Joan ('Named for Mummy's favourite singer. Welcome to the world, darling Joanie'). At first I almost continued on, barely even taking it in except for a snicker at the misspelling of my mother's favourite female singer, but a second read made my fingers tense and hold onto the folded tenth page until bared knuckles turned a pale white.

"Eileen Snape," I read aloud, "will be remembered during the Sunday morning service at St. Ann's, 9:30am. Mourners and community members are encouraged to attend. _Mourners and community members_?" I questioned, voice barely above a whisper lest I disturb those in the next room. The rooms in the Railview hotel all had paper-thin walls – quite unfortunate during the night, but reassuring in a perverse way.

I trailed an index finger down the column again, muttering about the 'mourners and community members'. I realised then that there had only been one other request for the same thing, for 'Fitzpatrick, Herbert'.

Eileen needed mourners, because she had none.

I didn't believe it – not even for a second.

…

On Sunday, I woke early and showered before the lukewarm water ran out. It was rather fruitless to wash my hair, considering the unflattering humidity that had plagued Cokeworth for the last fortnight, but it was washed all the same. I had no desire to insult a dead woman's memory, after all.

I dressed in sombre tones and then checked my reflection in the mirror – for once, the charmed Hogwarts mirrors were missed. It would have been nice to be reassured, though how does one really dress for the funeral of the mother of the man who killed their dearly beloved (well, by some) Headmaster only five weeks previously? With a huff, I settled for charming my jeans into a respectful black, and, after some thought, stuck my wand to my hair with a wince and watched it turn into a tight braid.

I slid my wand up my navy blue sleeve and tensed. It would be far more preferable to keep it in hand, though surely he would curse me out of the church and onto my arse if he saw me in such a way. Much better to hope that he noticed me when it was too late to distract the other kind-hearted 'mourners'.

Would he even be accessible? I was prepared for such a thing, as I could always cast a quiet spell to reveal all of the humans present. If he had disillusioned himself, I would know.

Of course, _I_ could always disillusion myself; the strange, cracked-egg like feeling was a simple spell. It would more than likely be the best course of action.

And yet…

There was something about it; something about the 'mourners and community members are encouraged to attend'. I hadn't known Eileen Snape, nor had I really known Professor Snape (not at all, if I considered his most recent actions), but I had seen her picture once, not too long ago. Skinny and sallow, more sharply defined than her son, she had cast a mournful image in the Prophet's small article about the Gobstones team. She had … There was … I couldn't put a name to it at the time, and I still cannot. The closest would be, perchance, an overall sense of sadness about her. Even her eyes seemed to lack the curious glint that the Professor's would have during odd moments where both his interests and those of his pupil's truly aligned in the classroom. I noticed it more and more during later years; though he grew more haggard and weary, he seemed to not _dislike_ teaching the older students.

And that was as good a reason as any to seek him—Dumbledore's murderer—out.

Why not?

It was certainly reckless; I adjusted the collar of my blouse and nodded to my reflection. Yes, it was reckless. But there was a certain charm in it, no? A typical warped, wartime passion of a charm: the lonely Professor, forced to commit a dark and horrible deed. A foolish woman, desperate to uncover his true motivations.

I was, however, not a fool. It could have just as easily been the black-hearted bastard exacting long sought-after revenge.

There was only one way to find out. And there was always the one irrefutable fact: there was no more time.

…

St. Ann's was rather beautiful, in its own way. Nestled within the middle of the large town of Cokeworth, it could be accurately described as a bog-standard seventeenth century British church. But it stood out in the town that seemed to not even be able to lay claim to being blue-collar, thanks to the closure of the Mill.

The brickwork was clean, and the pavement before it was obviously swept regularly. In fact, compared to the dreary appearance of the rest of the buildings on the main street, the only other place that looked as well cared for was the local chippie. Even the pub was run-down, though its specials board out front was bright and cheery; quite odd, really.

Checking my watch—and acknowledging the pang that came from wearing Jean Granger's old, gold piece that should have transferred to Monica Wilkins, and somehow, through every fault of my own, did not—I smoothed trembling hands down over my blouse. No one milled outside the church in the way I was used to; no kind, older ladies descended upon me as I trudged across the road.

In fact, no one was there at all.

It was a foggy morning, apt for the occasion. I took in the closed doors of the church – I was only fifteen minutes early, but perhaps this shepherd preferred to gather his flock at the last minute. If there was a flock to speak of, that is.

I cast a discreet notice-me-not charm, and eased my way in through the doors. It wouldn't come close to keeping me from Professor Snape's notice, but it was a damn good try.

Besides, I wished to be found.

…

 _A fortnight earlier_

"You're bloody mad, that's what you are."

"You're probably right," I agreed, stuffing the rest of my clothes into an expandable and weightless beaded bag. "But someone's got to try, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Ron exclaimed, "the Aurors, maybe? Remember them? The ones in the red cloaks, whose _job it is_ to go after the bastard. You'll get yourself killed!"

"Oh, I will not!" Throwing my hands up in the air with exasperation, I sat down heavily on the end of the bed of my childhood. It sagged under my weight; one more reminder that I was no longer the innocent that once lived with Jean and Richard Granger. Jean and Richard were downstairs now and would wake in—I checked my new watch—about fifteen minutes from the slumber that the memory charm had forced them into.

"Think about it, Ron," I tried again, waving a hand at where he stood by the bedroom window. He didn't look as if he wished to, but miracles could happen. "We should know where he is! We should be keeping tabs on him!"

He scuffed one faded shoe on the carpet. "Yeah, well," he muttered darkly, "it shouldn't be us! It shouldn't be you. It's too dangerous. It's _stupid._ "

"Regardless," I sniffed, "We've got a few weeks before…" I faded off, shrugging. We both knew that the time was fast approaching when Harry would choose to go off on his own – with us tagging along, of course. Even tagging along wasn't the right term – we were chomping at the bit. But we couldn't very well begin to search for Horcruxes without Harry, and so we were determined to wait until he was ready. Ron looked as sour as ever at the idea of traipsing around the country, but I respected the steely determination in his eyes.

"I know," he mumbled, coming to sit beside me. "But you don't have to do _this._ Why don't you just come and stay at the Burrow?"

"Because… because…" I ran a hand over my face, unnerved. "Because I don't want to be there right now. I'm sending my parents away, Ron. I just… I want some time. I _need_ time."

He sighed and reached for my hand. Despite our friendship, which always seemed delicate and as if it were hovering on the edge of a precipice that neither of us really understood, his presence was comforting. I couldn't have asked Harry to help – how could I have heaped that upon him, when he would never have chosen to do what I have done? Why would an orphan agree to help me send away my parents, after all?

"Fine," Ron said eventually, his damp fingers squeezing just once. "Fine. Two weeks, 'Mione. No longer."

"Yes," I said hastily, knowing that soon Harry would have to be rescued from Privet Drive in time for his coming of age. Yet no-one had come looking for Hermione Granger, and no-one had raised the subject of protecting my parents. I had time. "You've still got the medallion?"

He dug around inside his pocket, and then produced the pair to my charmed galleon. "Sorry. Thought someone would notice if I wore it like a necklace."

I stared at him. "Then charm it…?"

"Oh. Right."

I snorted, and then giggled. Before long, I was laughing, one hand covering my mouth as hysterical tears began to leak onto my cheeks. Ron, familiar already with wild family members, silenced the room with a wave of his wand and tucked me into his side.

There I remained for ten minutes, eyes closed and breathing deeply, as I memorised the smell of him – clean grass, the air at dusk, and something dark that always reminded me of chocolate frogs.

"I'll be all right," I said softly, glad of his company. "I doubt I'll even find him."

"If anyone can, it's you," he said immediately, patting my shoulder awkwardly. "You managed to find that one mention of Cokeworth in the enrolment records, after all. Sheer luck, that was, but you found it."

"Yes, well, Harry was the one who gave me the hotel name."

"Doesn't mean anything," he scoffed. "Snape's not living in a hotel now, is he? But at least you have somewhere to stay. You've got…" he floundered then soldiered on. "You've got enough money? Because I could find some, if you need help paying for the room."

"Oh, Ron." I smiled and shook my head. "No, I've got just enough."

"Right." We stood in unison. "Don't forget – don't engage him. We just need to know where he is – what he's doing. And don't—"

"Don't tell Harry," I supplied, well versed. Neither of us wished to involve Harry in this; he was still too raw, too shocked by what he had witnessed. Ron, too, had been incensed when I'd first brought up the idea of going to find Snape but at the time, even I had been stunned by my desire to search for him. Hadn't he already proven that he was a killer?

But it was never really that simple, and even Ron could see it. Patient now, in ways that he wouldn't be once we started our real task, I took advantage of him shamelessly, manipulating and coaxing until he saw my point of view. In the end he agreed, and I had begun to tentatively make my plans for spending a small portion of the summer in Cokeworth.

…

There was no one inside the church, save a priest—sans robes—by the pulpit. He was standing with one foot on the steps leading up to it, and his elbow was leaning against the lectern.

I made my way slowly down the aisle, head moving back and forth, checking every nook and cranny. When I was finally satisfied that either no one was present, or that Snape wasn't about to hex the heart out of my chest with a man of the church in full view, I sat down in the third row, closest to the aisle.

The priest, more observant than I had taken him for, looked up and smiled faintly. "Are you here for the service?" His voice was light, airy and out of place.

I fidgeted with my hands. "Erm…"

"For Mrs. Snape," he prompted patiently. I nodded once and ducked my head. "Please accept my condolences," he went on to say, voice muffled by approaching footsteps of the regular Sunday parishioners. "I am sure that she will be dearly missed."

"Ah… yes," I stammered. "She will be." Aware that if I didn't stop now, I'd take the lord's name in vain and mean it, I slumped in my seat and stared at what looked to be a nondescript box of ashes on a side table. The plain box had me transfixed and entirely too distracted from my surroundings.

Which was probably for the best, considering it stopped me from screaming when I first felt the warmth of an invisible body sitting close to me on the otherwise empty pew.

"Miss Granger," a harsh voice purred, and I closed my eyes.

"Oh, Christ," I muttered, putting a hand to my forehead.

"Mmm. You could put it like that, yes," the voice said icily. I stayed sitting rigid in my seat; my hands only trembled once. "Good girl," Snape's low voice said disparagingly. "Very brave, aren't you?"

"No," I said petulantly, righteous anger beginning to simmer. Good – that was a vast improvement on ice cold fear.

"Oh, we'll see about that," he whispered; his mouth was so close to my ear that it stirred a tendril of hair. Swallowing, I remained silent. "Good," he said again. "Now – you will stay here, and you will damn well watch the spectacle that you came here to see. And afterwards, I'm going to take you somewhere that your shining shoes and respectable clothes will have never taken you, and you're going to tell me why the _fuck_ you're here at my _mother's funeral._ "


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

As the service went on, the invisible man in the third pew said not a word and I was grateful for it. Already there was a bright red shameful flush to my cheeks, and the blouse at my armpits felt sticky from sweat.

The decision to seek him out here of all places was, in the cold light of day, _awful._ Here I was: sitting near the box of his mother's ashes, as if I belonged. As if I was mourning. It was insulting and I was ashamed. Frightened, too, but the situation was so horribly surreal that fear simmered, rather than boiled, and mortification took precedence over true—and sensible—fear. There was an odd sensation of being outside of myself, of watching my body twitch and tremble in the pew, while an unseen wizard grumbled and swore under his breath about both my stupidity and the 'snivelling wanker' of a priest. It made no sense at all – it was bizarre, and I couldn't quite grasp the idea that this moment of stupidity could lead me to death, or worse. I had suspected that there was more to the events on the Astronomy Tower, but suspicions and cold-hard knowledge were vastly different.

And underneath it all was a perverse and entirely _wrong_ sense of safety that I felt, sitting beside a murderer. Presumably because I could have left at any moment and yet there I sat, in the third row at Mrs. Snape's funeral, cringing every time the priest looked me in the eye as he droned on and on about new life and gratefulness. Instinct, or perhaps sheer disbelief at my naivety and Professor Snape's mild-mannered greeting—considering the circumstances—kept me solid in the uncomfortable wooden seat. Brightest witch of her age, indeed.

It would have been wiser to leave it alone.

Yet the notice in the paper had asked for mourners, and so I would bloody well mourn. The box of ashes loomed in the corner – disdain leaked out of it like a rolling carpet of smoke. Like the man sitting stiffly beside me, it was not able to be seen, but I felt it; as sure as I knew the suffocating horror of Dementors, I knew the affronted glare that would have been on Eileen Snape's face, should she be here to sit and view us all. Regardless, a tear snaked its way down my left cheek in reference to a life lived and ended without anyone to mark it.

"And let us pray," the priest said, his voice suddenly louder as he neared the end of his sermon, "for the soul of the newly departed Mrs. Eileen Snape. May she be welcomed into the open arms of the Lord, and may she rest in eternal peace. Amen."

Professor Snape snorted.

…

Walking with the tip of a wand pointing at my back was surprisingly easy. Like driving lessons last year when Mum told me once to accelerate when coming out of a corner and not before, the methodology of it felt simple. Left foot in front then right foot, wand jab, hissed insult, repeat.

I clutched the box of ashes to my chest – if this were any other situation, I might have laughed from the absurdity of it. Having no one else to palm them off to, and after hearing my vague attestation that yes, I did in fact know someone or other who was related to her, the priest was glad to be rid of Eileen. It was quite easy to convince him, Confunded as he was.

"I thought ashes were buried," I had commented, though only when they were securely in my arms. The Professor's wand poked me in the back just once in response.

The priest looked uncomfortable. "There were no other instructions," he said. "And we don't like to presume."

"Right. I understand." I didn't – he was a poor shepherd, indeed.

And that was how I came to be stumbling along the pavement, the day now warm and muggy, while carrying the remains of Eileen Snape.

…

We walked for long enough to see the difference between the high street and the homes that directly surrounded the old Mill. The inner city had obviously been cleaned up thanks to families that sought affordable mortgages, yet the further we walked, the dirtier it became. The stench of the river was ever present, though not overpowering; summer had not yet really sunk in. No doubt it would be revolting when the heat truly arrived. I recalled then a story about flooding in the North; the rivers in old towns had risen and fish had flapped themselves to death on the banks. It had been the height of summer—strange times for flooding—and the stench of dead, rotting fish was noteworthy enough to reach the television in our Midlands lounge room.

"See anything you like?" the Professor's ghostly voice rose up into the fog from behind me as I paused just once to take in Spinner's End. There were rows and rows of houses, if one could even call them houses in the first place. Mostly, it was dirty and dark and depressing; a street of brick dilapidation.*

"Not really," I admitted, too hot and uncomfortable to lie. He was quiet, but I suspected that he was smirking.

"Last house on the right," he directed, prodding me again.

"Did you hear that?" I said to Eileen. "Last house on the right." His eye-roll was close to audible.

"Don't give my mam cheek, Granger," said Snape, his voice a low growl. "You've already intruded far too much."

Attempting—and failing—to brush off another tinge of mortification, I asked feebly, "So why not send me home?"

"Home?" he echoed, clicking his tongue. "You've no more of a home than I do."

I opened my mouth in preparation to argue such a ridiculous point—we had _nothing_ in common, surely—when we came to a stop in front of a sad, abandoned-looking house. And then comprehension dawned: Professor Snape called Hogwarts home, and he had destroyed it with sickly green shot of light. We both of us were homeless then, though I took comfort in knowing that he could have no inkling of what I myself had done to lose _two_ homes – not just Hogwarts, but my childhood enclave of safety as well.

"How did you know that?" I said instead, watching as a faint shimmer in the air alerted me to his coming around in front to escort me through the wards. He did not answer and for one disconcerting moment, his invisible hand was on the small of my back – _'Body contact will save you from a painful and long-lasting death, stupid girl' –_ as he pushed me inside the boundaries.

I had expected them to feel dark and clinging, yet instead a brush with his magic felt… gentle. He scoffed and I jerked my face away, sure that he had been listening to my thoughts.

"No, Granger," he chastised, "but you must learn to not be so transparent."

With a harrumph, I stormed inside the house and waited, heart pounding and stomach flipping, for the Potions Master to reveal himself.

…

The inside of the house was like him: sharp and unforgiving. The lamps could not completely push the darkness of the sitting room away, and the worn moss green carpet couldn't mask the way the house managed to give a weary, creaking sound with each step.

I flinched when I heard him scoff again, and whirled around to see his face properly for the first time in over a month.

"Oh," I managed, drawing back in shock.

"Oh," he returned flatly, mimicking my surprise with a sneer. His breath was sour. "Foolish girl."

"You might be right…"

For he was a fright indeed, looming over me with a savage sneer painted on his sallow face. With hair now lying flat on his head from grease instead of the usual shine at the parting of his hair during the school terms, Snape was a mess. His eyes were bloodshot and withdrawn, and his body was slighter than I had ever seen it. There was a faint line across the bridge of his nose, from reading glasses I assumed, and a short, untidy beard covered his cheeks. He stooped over me with a glower, but it was then that I knew. I _knew._ Suspicions became fact, something that might have been scoffed at but here, in the damp and musty-smelling room, it seemed we understood each other. This was no man basking in glory, resplendent in triumph. This was no applauded right-hand man – or if he was, the man himself did not revel in it.

His grief was so tangible, so naked and raw, that there was absolutely no possibility that he wasn't consumed by it – for his mother _and,_ I decided rashly, his now-dead Headmaster. More prudent would have been considering why he'd lifted the curtain for a wayward witch found in a church, but surely there would be time to deliberate on the strangeness of this tableau later.

"You look _terrible_ ," I breathed, barely registering the movement of my hand that reached to cup his cheek. And in his shock he allowed the touch; for one short, blessed moment, I was sure that he even moved into it with a weary sigh, but as soon as I knew what it was to feel his paper-thin and bristled skin, he pushed at my chest with two flat palms and I landed on the couch with a squeak.

"You didn't mean it, did you?" I demanded, shockingly naïve that I was. "The Headmaster. There's more to it, isn't there? Look at you!"

"Foolish," he repeated; the venom in his voice sounded false.

I pressed my lips together and assembled my limbs in an orderly fashion on the couch. When I was properly seated instead of the graceless sprawl that I'd fallen into, the Professor straightened his cuffs and sat down in the one single seat opposite. He held both my wand and Eileen, and I stared, nonplussed, as I realised that he had both disarmed me and taken my cargo without so much as a flick of his hand.

Hoarsely, he demanded, "Is he dead? Is that why you are here?"

I shook my head slowly. "Who?"

"Potter," he spat, leaning forward. "Is Potter alive? Is he here?"

"Harry? Is Harry here?" I echoed stupidly, nonplussed. "Of course he isn't here. He's—" Here I paused, uncertain. The Professor gave a wry, sarcastic laugh.

"She strolls into the lair, then questions why she is to be eaten," he commented drily. His gaze lacked heat, but it was angry all the same. The hands on the box of ashes were clenched around it so tightly that it was a wonder his fingers did not snap from the effort. With a start, I remembered our morbid shared purpose earlier this morning.

"I'm sorry," I offered softly. "For your mother. For your loss."

Ebony eyes narrowed, and Snape hissed, "You are not. Do not lie to me, Granger. Not in my house, and not today."

It was fruitless to protest, but I did it anyway. "I'm not lying – I _am_ sorry. What a fucking horrible month it's been."

Despite his own colourful language inside the church, he looked mildly scandalised, and his eyes flashed down to the ashes – almost as if he expected his mother to appear like a _djinni_ and whack our backsides. Curiously, there was no annoyance in his eyes when he met my gaze again – merely something that hinted at grudging toleration. It only served to highlight his ragged appearance. He crossed his arms, and the stench of his stale sweat rose in the air.

"Do you think… that is, do you want… I could make myself scarce if you had planned to—to bathe…" Unperturbed, Snape merely shrugged. "I only ask," I continued on, "as it was rather hot and I was quite uncomfortable walking back and I assume that you—"

"Fuck-all," he groaned, glowering, his discomfort at coarse language seemingly out the window. "And this is the idiot who is supposed to keep Potter within her capable hands… First, she comes to the Death Eater, offering herself up like some prig on a stick. And now…" His lips curled; he looked disgusted. "Are you suggesting that we _bathe together,_ Granger?"

I could not play his game; I looked away, and he nodded to himself. "I'm not suggesting anything," I said, perhaps more bravely than I felt. Snape—for it was strange to think of him as Professor or Sir when I had suggested that he rid himself of clothing and scrub himself raw—fixed his disconcerting gaze upon my face and waited. Despite his dishevelment, he looked mostly tired. For once, as he sat hunched in the chair, I could see him for what he was: a man of no more than thirty seven, and exhausted.

Later I would realise that it would have behoved me to be aware of this calm and startlingly honest mien, for I had seen him furious far more than _calm._ But alas, though there was too much warmth in the room from the weather, and though my blouse was sticking to my back, I was lulled into a sense of security.

"I only meant," I said, tilting my chin up until I faced him head on, "that perhaps you need to rest, sir. Refresh yourself. And…" I swallowed, perturbed by the way his eyes tracked the movement, "I will still be here when you are finished."

"You are out of your mind, idiot girl." He narrowed his eyes. Strange, that my offer gave him pause to think, but it must have because he looked at me closely: a hard, scrutinizing stare. In that moment, I felt a pull towards him. I shied away from the instinct – it was preferable to think that _someone_ should stay with him and that it might as well be me, than to confront my twisted desire to support a grieving man who had often treated me as if I were mud underneath his shoe. He hadn't even _denied_ the theory that there was more to be known about the night on the Astronomy Tower. That in itself was more a confession than anything else; he had given me no lies thus far, and I was oddly inclined to believe that he wouldn't.

"Interesting…" he commented slowly; his voice was like a waterfall, enunciating the first syllable and then allowing the rest to taper off. "…That you should make such an offer, considering I have your wand."

He did, and, remarkably, I was unfazed. "And you have Eileen, too," I said, jerking my chin at the box. "Shall I hold her for you? You can keep my wand," I added hurriedly, desperate to maintain the link with him, even if it rendered me useless and defenceless. Snape twirled it in his fingers – looking far too smug – and tucked it away near his belt.

"You are remarkably _stupid_ , Granger. It's almost painful to watch you, desperate to please as you are."

I bit my lower lip. "I think you've made that clear." _But I've got this far, haven't I? I found you, and I'm here,_ I thought.

"Obviously not, if you are still entertaining the idea of sending goodie Death Eater off to have a piss and a bath, you fool of a child! Is this what you took from all of your schooling?"

"It was just an idea! When my grandmother died, all Mum wanted was sleep and hot baths, sleep and hot baths, sleep and bloody hot baths. I'd suggest it to anyone and I'm willing to bet you would be doing that now if I hadn't gone and ruddy intruded!" Bluffing, I continued, "You don't want to hurt me. And you won't. I'm just trying to—you haven't killed me yet, have you? So that must mean—"

Snape snarled, baring his stained yellow teeth. "Unbelievable. You are…" Words failed him. Instead, to my stunned amazement, he stood and thrust the box of ashes into my hands. There was a dark and dour expression on his face. "If you so much as step outside, the wards will render you dead. Or terribly uncomfortable, depending on which one you manage to trigger first. You cannot Apparate from here. I have your wand," he snarled, pausing thoughtfully for a moment. "Ah," he said, almost conversationally. "I'll take that." He grabbed my beaded bag and eyed my body. "And that…" he amended, somehow moving past the notice-me-not charm in order to yank off the charmed galleon necklace. "…and I seem to remember you as being too half-witted to master wandless magic. Do not think that I am moved by your naïve declarations, girl. Do not think that you are _safe_. You have _nowhere_ to go – and _no-one_ knows you are here, you brainless twit. I could go about my business and leave you here to _starve_ – it'd serve you right."

"I don't have anywhere else to go," I muttered, agreeing with the overall sentiment of his little speech. "And I think we have much to talk about."

His eyes roamed over my face. "Interesting," he said again, though this time he looked puzzled. "For all of your foolishness, you have provided me with a break from monotony, I'll grant you that. Even if this is the stupidest act that you have ever done. You will regret this, one way or another."

I stayed silent while he examined me; I did not dare to think on just why I hoped that he would not find me wanting. When he nodded sharply, I breathed a silent sigh of relief and watched him pivot and tap his wand to one bookcase, before ascending the stairs that it swung open to reveal.

When the bathroom door opened and closed, my body began to tremble violently.

This was too simple. Far, far too simple. And I did not know why.

* * *

 _*'Side by side they stood looking across the road at the rows and rows of dilapidated brick houses, their windows dull and blind in the darkness.' - Chap 2, 'Spinner's End', HBP._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The entire house complained when the water came on in the shower. Pipes moaned and tapped, and the floor under my very feet rumbled and shook once, albeit faintly. Thankfully, a fortnight staying at the Railview was more than adequate preparation for such an occurrence.

It went without saying, then, that nothing could prepare me for the sudden knowledge that he had either forgotten, or had ignored, casting a silencing charm. For despite the stairs and walls between us, I could hear him weeping softly as dull smacks heralded his palms striking the tiles.

How could I remain unmoved? I had strived to stay detached – it was easier to do that, than to examine my horrendously insulting choice to attend her funeral. I had no place there, amongst the faux mourners.

 _Or did I?_

Because, absurdly so, the sag of his shoulders when he disappeared upstairs to the shower didn't seem resigned nor repulsed; it seemed relieved.

I looked down at Eileen. "He's quite upset," I said, surprising myself as I noticed the line of acidity in my tone as I attempted to fall into a typical British manner of speech that was intended to avoid any and all emotional outbursts. "Your son, I mean," I added foolishly, then coughed. "Jesus Christ," I muttered. One wince later had me mumbling an apology to Mrs. Snape – it was uncommon for wizarding families to immerse themselves in faith, but she had been farewelled in a church. I myself was an example of a fair chunk of young Englishwomen at the time: believers, but only during the delicate hour of a traditional Christmas midnight mass, or when tragedies on the television succeeded in cementing a faith long abandoned.

With morbid curiosity, I turned the box around in my hands. It was black and plain – only a simple silver clasp on the lid kept Eileen's remains from being scattered over the sitting room floor. "Seems appropriate," I said under my breath, not daring to judge the woman when I was holding her ashes, but unable to picture something ostentatious or beautiful holding her, when she had held court in such a dreary place.

The wallpaper was peeling, and there were scratches on the carpet near the base of the couch. From a cat, I assumed, though there were no musky odours present to indicate that any remained alive in the house.

The couch was positioned with its back to the front window. A television—that, surprisingly, looked to be in working order for it lacked the film of dust on the windowsill—sat on a dark wooden unit to the left of me, and to the right was the single chair that Snape had sat in earlier.

One couch, one chair. One television, no coffee table, no rug other than the old green carpet that covered the entire room, from the front door to the—I craned my neck—linoleum beginnings that indicated the kitchen was at the back of the house. It was not a place that I could envision anyone spending their formative years in. I'd darted in and out of Snape's office in the dungeons over the years, collecting additional work and the like, and now the morbid green-tinted atmosphere there seemed positively theatrical compared to this very real, very tangible, heaviness.

Despite my efforts, I shuddered and drew further into myself, unconsciously searching for a way to protect my mind from the sadness that cloaked the air. I thought of the Professor upstairs, and his odd, dour presence felt strangely soothing. Like the woods during the Quidditch World Cup a handful of years ago, Spinner's End with the powerful wizard inside was enclosed, protected. Calming, in a way, though it had nothing to do with the surroundings and everything to do with the man who inhabited it and seemed committed to keeping me unharmed despite my stupidity.

…

"Your turn." A foot nudged my calf, and I opened my eyes. A freshly shaven Snape stood over me; one drop of water from his still wet hair hit my cheek. "Go on," he ordered flatly. "You look disgusting, and you smell."

 _Bastard._

I dared to glance at him from under my lashes as I walked past, and I was unprepared for the sight of him, clad in a plain white shirt and trousers. With his long hair of ink hanging down to his shoulders, dampening his clothes, he looked… softer. Not approachable—never approachable—but simply… _there._ Oh, his presence was still powerful and compelling, to be sure, but I saw him in the living room as a man existing, rather than a man dominating.

I did not quite know what to think about that. Then, there was more – of course there was more. His upper body was long and lean; his hips were narrow, and automatically my eyes flicked lower still, until I caught myself, stunned that I had slowed to a stop in order to stare at his body. Snape had kept his back to me, but his ears were flushed. He made a strange huffing sound under his breath and retreated to the kitchen while he waited for me to leave the room. There was a broadness to his back that made me swallow awkwardly and take the stairs two at a time.

…

In revenge for discovering that I was attracted to such a harsh and unforgiving man as Snape, I scrubbed my body with the half-empty bottle of Cussons in the corner of the stall. It took some time to rein in my inappropriate yet unavoidable snort at the scent—rosewater and sandalwood, with a bright red discounted sticker on the front—for I had always imagined that he would concoct his own, or that the herbal scent clung to him naturally after a day spent brewing. It made me think of the living room downstairs; of the harsh street outside; of the curses that spilled lazily from his mouth; of the wizard that had forgotten himself and spat on the ground after one of Harry's Quidditch matches years ago.

That man was a dangerous man to be considering, for that man intrigued me, and I had no place being intrigued.

Emerging with clean skin and hair, I flushed at the obvious sign that he'd entered the bathroom and cleaned my clothes with his wand (or perhaps he'd tried my own wand for kicks, as the blouse was far too stiff) while I had been washing. Tit for tat, I gathered; I'd crashed the funeral, and his attempts to mortify me were only to be expected.

…

"Now," he began, as he ran his long, spidery fingers along the length of my wand, "tell me what you are doing here."

Avoiding the question—not for self-preservation, but because the answer was so mundane that he'd surely not believe it—I decided to try a different tactic.

"Are you all right?" It was what I wanted to know, after all. Gone was the false bravado from Ron's harried instructions in my parent's house – it was insipid, really, to think that I could have thought of Snape as anyone other than the angry, awkward man he always had been. He wasn't a killer. Or, at least, he wasn't a murderer. And being in his presence now was so bizarre that not asking about the Headmaster didn't quite seem so abnormal as it would've done under other circumstances.

He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What are you doing here?" he repeated, his eyes closed in exasperation.

"Have you got a headache? Is there something I can get for you?" I half rose, then sat back down when he raised his face and glowered.

"Tell me, or I will look for it."

"I don't think you will," I said easily.

"Try me."

We sat in silence with eyes locked. I was so far out of my depth that I was drowning in his surety.

"Tell m—" he began, and when I felt a small ripple nudge my mind, a hint of his capabilities, I wrenched my gaze away and growled.

"I wanted to know!" I exclaimed, hands in the air. "And I'm sorry that I came today of all days, but I just—"

"You just…" he cut me off and sliced his hand through the air. I watched as he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, contemplating and assessing my answer. "…Wanted to know?" His dramatic pause put me off kilter.

"Well…"

"Do you realise that you could have died today? That if you were seen, you could have been captured?"

"I wouldn't have been seen!" I cried. "I've been here for—ah." I cleared my throat. "Anyway, it doesn't m—"

Snape leaned forward in his seat. "How long have you been in Cokeworth?"

Deciding to surprise him, I blurted out, "A fortnight already, so obviously your detective skills aren't up to—"

It took me five seconds to realise that he was laughing. With shaking shoulders and panting breaths, he tipped his head back and barked hoarsely; obviously he hadn't done it in months. When he resurfaced, he looked faintly embarrassed.

"You checked in on a Thursday," he began slowly, watching the horror dawn on my features, "and every day since, you have scoured the newspapers. You have taken to Apparating and having lunch at a Chinese takeaway near Birmingham, where the owner knows you as 'Kate'," he said lazily, one thin eyebrow arched elegantly. "You walk the streets with nary a care for your safety. You peer into windows and talk to old biddies weeding their gardens. Two days ago, you Apparated to Blackpool and walked along the beach. You prefer cider over lager, and your luck in ordering last week wasn't due to your _charms_ at the pub, but rather the barman's apathy. You are," he declared, "the _worst_ spy that I have ever had the _pleasure_ of observing."

There was a choice here: either bow to my bright red cheeks and try to flee, as it went without saying that my cover—or rather, the cover I thought I'd had—was blown to smithereens. Or I could take his self-assured smirk and bundle it up, place it into my pocket and wear it, all as an example of how Severus Snape had spent his days tracking my every movement. Surprisingly, when I thought of it that way, I felt a strange and not entirely unwelcome heat traverse my skin until it bloomed and tightened uncomfortably in my belly.

I bit my lip again.

"Well?" Snape asked, crossing his long legs over at the knee. "What say you?"

"I say…" I licked my lips. Daringly, I answered, "I say that we have a cup of tea."

"Do you now?" He smirked – he was dangerous then, and it made me feel entirely too young and off-key. "You wish to partake in the national pastime while my mother's ashes sit on the windowsill?"

There was a strange flicker in his eyes as he said it, but whether it was anger or grief, I could not tell. He was no different, no less composed, than he would have been on any other occasion, but still… The undercurrent was there. As if he was dragging it out – as if he did not wish to be alone on the day of Eileen's funeral. Not that he would ever admit it. It shocked me to even consider it.

I thought of my parents, and I turned around to look at the box. He'd placed it where it would receive the low light of the afternoon sun, but it looked out onto the street and surely Eileen would not wish to see that for the rest of her days?

"I wish to," I whispered as I turned back, "make you a cup of tea. And…"

"And?" he pressed, his voice light and curious. "And what?"

"I thought we might…" I swallowed. "I thought we might move Eileen to somewhere more pleasant. The garden, perhaps. If you have one."

Much later, I wondered if that was the first time that he had ever seen me for someone more than his previous assumptions. He'd slotted me into a box years ago, and he had never given himself cause to re-examine me since.

The smile he gave me was faint—barely there at all, really—but there was a peculiar sweetness to it, an unfamiliar note of honesty that I had not witnessed before. Before long he had withdrawn into himself again, his lips flat and thin, but I filed it away promptly as he muttered under his breath then finally stood.

"Indeed," he said awkwardly, and then made his way silently into the kitchen. Not long after, I heard water boiling in the kettle.


	4. Chapter 4

**_A/N:_** _Allow me to remind you all that this story has a sequel. Keep an eye out, and it'll pop up within the week. Thank you to everyone who has read and enjoyed!_

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

The strange situation that the Professor and I found ourselves in grew even more off-the-wall as the day progressed. As he made the tea, I sat in the sitting room, one eye on Eileen as I wondered how on earth I had managed to do something so awful, so horrible, as to shove myself into his mourning.

The shame of it made my face blaze and I swallowed, fighting back tears of mortification.

When Snape returned and jerked his chin for me to follow, I took the box of ashes from the windowsill and approached him with a grimace.

"I am s—" I began, but soon found myself with a face full of my own wand.

"Do _not_ ," he snarled. Black eyes narrowed with anger and what looked like disappointment. "You've made your bed. Now lie in it."

I didn't deserve his forgiveness or even toleration; it felt unnerving to receive it. I nodded once and eased my way past him with a mumbled, "I didn't mean it like that."

He jabbed me in the back with the wand, directing me to a peeling door with a small uneven hole cut out of the bottom left corner for the absent cat. I stepped over the threshold and surveyed the garden – or what was left of it, if there ever was one in the first place. Weeds were growing furiously, and the privy near the back fence was held up by a number of damp, thick planks of wood. There were nails sticking out of the planks.

Still, though, there were signs of life. A slight shimmer in the air along the right side hinted at masked content – potions ingredients, I assumed – and the chairs near the back steps were sturdy and strong. Snape sat in one and pulled out a rusty stool from beneath the other; he directed the tea tray to land on it, then waved his hand between where I stood on the top step and the other vacant chair.

"Sit," he ordered gruffly, digging in his pockets and producing a packet of tobacco and papers. When I cocked an eyebrow from my place opposite him, he rolled his eyes. "What?" he asked, his fingers busy with packing the cigarette. "Too _uncivilised_ for you _?_ "

I scoffed and clicked my tongue. This was England in the late nineties, after all. My own father had only quit a handful of years ago, though his own habit was far more sporadic – for the teeth, he used to say. "Hardly! I just didn't take you for a smoker."

He chuckled, a dark, dry sound. "Look around you, girl. You're not in Hampstead anymore."

Leaning back in the chair, I allowed a soft snort to escape. My fingers curled around Eileen's box then traced small circles on the lid. I looked up just in time to catch deep ebony eyes following the movements of my fingers, though he turned his head to the side to light the cigarette as soon as he became aware of my scrutiny.

"Not a spell?" I asked the back of his still damp hair as he clicked a nondescript blue lighter.

"It's therapeutic," he said shortly. "Don't ask questions."

"Why not?"

He sighed and tipped his head back to rest on the chair; with closed lids, he blew the smoke above our heads. He muttered something under his breath, and I smiled faintly when the smoke took upon shapes: a phoenix here, a centaur there. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Snape remained silent. I took the hint, albeit reluctantly, and it was only when he'd finished the cigarette and started to pack another that I spoke again.

"Would you…" I paused, shy when he looked over at me, his upper lip curled.

"Are you going to ask another question?"

"One. And if you don't want to answer it, then I'll shut up."

"Ha," he said, "I'll believe that when I see it."

"I can be quiet," I threw back. "I just wasn't sure – I thought you might want to talk instead of—"

He made that sarcastic little, _'_ _Ha,'_ again, and lit the second cigarette. He took in one deep nicotine-laced breath, and shrugged. "I don't know what I want," said Snape, his eyes fixed firmly on the blue sky. There were no clouds, apart from the normal slight haze.

I stared at him, stunned at the admission. Here before me was a man – a gruff, blue-collar man – and not the austere Professor that had wielded power over me for so many years. I didn't quite know what to make of it; it made me feel suspicious and young, and I should have obeyed that niggling feeling and left right then and there.

The carrot dangled before me was, however, too interesting to refuse. He was baiting me, and he knew it, though I had the inkling that if he truly wanted me out, he would have done so when he first found me in the church.

He opened his mouth and a doe formed from the smoke. He sighed again, though I did not understand the significance behind the sadness in the sound. "I find," he said, "that having company on one of the worst fucking days of my miserable existence is not the bag of shite that I initially assumed it would be. Even if," he added, shaking his head at my mouth, open from the surprise of his colourful speech, "the company is _you_."

The warmth his words sparked prompted a slow, pleased smile to make its way onto my lips. He looked away. "I'm glad that you're going to suffer my presence, sir," I whispered.

"Stop calling me 'sir'. It's really bloody irritating."

I nodded easily. "Done. And…"

"Ah. The inevitable question – the only question, yes?"

I set my shoulders and said primly, "Like I said – if you don't want to answer it, then I won't ask anything else."

"Hm. Spit it out, then." Snape drew in deeply from the cigarette, blew out a long curl of smoke that arranged itself into what looked like a snake, and then flicked it to the ground. The glowing red tip was still faintly visible from where it lay nestled in the weeds. My right leg bounced restlessly; I wanted to get up and stamp on the cigarette, but I forced myself to stay seated, blatantly ignoring the way Snape looked to be hiding a faint, smug grin.

"Would you…" I started, then took a sip of fortifying tea. It was unapologetically black. He gave that small grin again and I had the exasperated feeling that must've spawned from passing a test that I hadn't intended to take. "This is shit tea, you know," I declared, my lips quirking when he barked out a gruff laugh. He didn't smile, nor did he allow the laugh to taper off naturally – he caught it almost instantly, but I was glad to see his eyes were bright. He was with me, now, not somewhere far off with demons to haunt his steps.

I brushed aside the inner rebuke, inspired by discovering this possessiveness that I felt towards him and his emotional state, and instead embraced it. It wasn't like there was anyone to police it – Snape didn't seem perturbed by the presence of a now-former student in his back garden, holding his mother's ashes, and I wasn't about to question why, even though to do so would've been prudent.

Questioning it would be endangering it and I knew then that I could not allow that to happen. I raised my chin and met his gaze. "Would you tell me about your mother?"

Dark eyes darted to the box, then back to my face. "Not the Headmaster? I'm shocked." I shook my head, knowing full well that I'd never know the real reason why we saw the body of Professor Dumbledore lying so awkwardly splayed on the ground beneath the Astronomy Tower. It was bigger than me; asking about it would have wasted time, and so I didn't.

His scowl deepened and his fingers twitched. I offered the box of ashes to him, sucking in a breath when his frown softened and he took it out of my hands. Calloused thumbs began to smooth over the surface, and he swallowed. "I'll need another smoke. And a drink."

I shrugged and rose, walking back into the kitchen to open cupboards until I found a dusty bottle. Figuring that we could use our tea cups, I returned to the garden and held it out for his approval. Snape shook his head, bemused.

"Of tea," he explained, snorting when I huffed. "You didn't ask."

"Have some of both, then." I poured in a splash of the whiskey followed by the bitter tea. He drained the cup and held it out. Again I mixed the alcohol and tea, and again he finished it in a few large mouthfuls.

"And the smoke?"

"I don't expect you to _roll it,_ girl," he sneered. "I bet you've never had—"

I glanced at him from beneath my lashes, already halfway through assembling the cigarette. "What? Never had what?" I chose not to give a brief overview of when I'd taken advantage of an inebriated uncle last year, taking his smoking accessories from under his nose to tick a mental box. I finished rolling it, then passed it to him.

He took it without comment. "Light it, if you please. My hands are busy."

"I will not," I protested. "Dig your own grave."

Snape lifted one shoulder then summoned the lighter.

…

"She was cold," said Snape. "And warm, too, I suppose. A woman of opposites." He paused and took a long drag from the cigarette; this time, a sly-looking fox prowled around us before it disappeared into the sky.

"Was that her patronus? A fox?" I asked. He gave me a long, sideways look. "Sorry."

"Quite."

"So – was it?"

Snape scoffed and smacked his lips together, vanishing the now-finished cigarette. To my relief – for it wouldn't have been prudent to cast a Bubblehead charm, surely – he reached for another drink instead of a smoke. "I don't know. She couldn't cast one – wasn't powerful enough, or at least she wasn't when I came into the picture. But I've always thought that if she could…"

I stayed silent and, judging by the quirk of his eyebrow, inadvertently passed another test. He took a sip of tea and continued with, "She married Dad not long out of school. She was too young to really _see,_ to really _know…"_

"To see… what?"

He rolled his shoulders and tossed me a scowl that could only mean he was being honest. "She saw what made him different – but she didn't _really_ see it. She was nineteen; how could a nineteen year old know that the bloke who went along to the union marches and gave her pretty things that still smelled of their upper class owners... How could she have known then, what he was _truly_ about? In any case," Snape muttered, his black eyes focused on the falling-apart privy, "she found out soon enough."

"You think she was naïve, then."

"Ha!" he barked and then tapped his fingers on the box of ashes. "No. Not naïve. _Young._ " Snape gave me an ironic look, as if to draw parallels between the woman in the box and my own too-trusting self. _"_ She was young. And then…"

"And then?"

"And then she wasn't young," he said simply. "My parents… they had uses for each other. I realised it, when I was old enough to understand it. Mam had a use for Dad – drunken, poor bastard that he was. And Dad had a use for her – though I don't think I'll tell you about that."

"I suppose you won't." But it was glaringly obvious. The Professor slunk around the house and hardly made any noise – he was far too natural, too practiced at it, for his actions to have been born out of anything other than learned fear. He shrugged again.

"Her family disowned her when she married him, which was probably part of his appeal… She didn't have anywhere to go, had no skills, no confidence. They were happy for a while. And then they weren't."

"Were you ever happy?" I asked daringly, somehow sensing that his protests about my curiosity were all for show. For all of his snide exasperation, Snape's cheeks flushed a light pink. It took me a moment to deduce that the flush was from satisfaction – he _wanted_ the distraction.

He thought over my question for a long while; I began to fidget in my seat, though he finally muttered, "I was. And even when I wasn't, it was a… comfortable kind of unhappiness."

"It was all you'd ever known," I suggested quietly, remembering when the teasing comments made from classmates at my brash displays of cleverness made me feel at home in Hogwarts, rather than the opposite. It was something I was used to – I knew, from primary school, how to hide away in the library, and I certainly knew how to eat on my own at lunch. After hurtling through the newness, the unfamiliar, it felt easy, if completely disappointing, to be the odd one out again.

Nodding, he exhaled heavily. "Everyone else here is poor. Everyone else has parents that yell loudly enough to be heard on the street. All the other fathers spend most of their pensions on the drink. When the houses here go on the market, ready to be snapped up by some hoity-toity fuckwits—" I laughed at that, and he paused long enough to smirk, black eyes glittering far too dangerously, "—they have to replace the wallpaper because the stench of cigarettes gets into _everything._ "

The story was changing; I could see it in the way his upper body tensed. Irritably, Snape pushed back his shirtsleeves, evidently uncaring about displaying the stark, harsh Dark Mark. Following his lead, I folded my legs under me so I could swivel around in the chair and face him fully. "Go on."

He did so without hesitation, swiping one finger across his forehead to push the hair out of his eyes. One quick huff heralded his hands busying themselves behind his neck, and when he turned to me again with his hair tied back, I forced myself to stifle a small sigh of pleasure. Did he know how it softened his features? Did he realise that, with his hair pulled loosely back, I found him attractive? I had never seen him thus – with his face bared to me, the intensity of his eyes given free rein to leave me breathless. And attractive was the right word for him, I thought; he was attractive in a way that most men would never be – magnetic, even, for I could not manage to pull my gaze away from his, now that he was really looking at me.

"Hogwarts was a nightmare," said Snape slowly. "In those days, even the pureblood _Gryffindors_ were poncy bastards. If you didn't reinvent yourself, then…" He narrowed his eyes, turning his head to stare into the distance with thoughtful pursed lips. I wondered who he was thinking of – who was it that had managed to reinvent themselves successfully, leaving him by the wayside? For he was still _here,_ after all; he still returned to this old, musty house.

Someone had left him behind. For once, I didn't want to know who.

"It matters not," he said eventually. "Dad died just before my seventh year. I thought Mam might be relieved, but she was worse. She had nothing." It was left unsaid that Eileen hadn't classified her son as something that she still had to pull her out of the fog, and I winced, uncomfortable with how loveless his childhood had been compared to my own. "She died of cancer," he said then, looking down at the box. "Of the lung - in case you hadn't guessed."

I refrained from admitting that I hadn't guessed – I'd come as far as assuming it was either something to do with her lungs or her liver, but hadn't wished to think on it further.

With one deep breath, I continued taking liberties with a hesitantly spoken, "How long was she in hospital?"

"The hospice," he corrected me with a wag of one long, white finger. "She was in the local hospice from…" Snape tilted his head, examining my face. "Your third year. Before that, she was in and out of hospital since before you lot even walked through the doors."

"I'm sorry," I whispered, catching my hand as it reached out to touch his on pure instinct. He stared as I folded it back, tucking both hands safely away.

"Yes," said Snape. "I think that you actually _are._ Why?"

"I don't know, really."

"That's a load of wank," he sneered. "You're a crusader, Granger." Flicking off some invisible lint, the Professor began to work on rolling another cigarette. "Are you crusading right now?"

"No!" I exclaimed. "I don't really know what I'm doing, or why I'm doing it – I wanted to see you, to just… to _know._ And then when I read… when I read…"

"When you read?" The unlit cigarette sat in his lap, forgotten.

"I read the funeral notice in the paper," I admitted carefully. "It said they needed mourners…"

Surprisingly, Professor Snape only nodded once. His face was held tightly in a blank mask; it only lasted for half a minute before he raised one weary hand and rubbed at his eyes, his mouth, his forehead. Tossing propriety over the back garden fence, I finally allowed my hands to dart forward and gather his within my smaller grasp; he drew breath and closed his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Professor." My thumbs rubbed over the cool, smooth flesh of his hands. I felt a forbidden twinge within my heart as I soothed his skin; he avoided my gaze, but his head tipped forward slowly, anything to avoid looking back at me. I began to feel the slightest pressure on my hands, and watched, transfixed, as he slid his fingers through the gaps until he was holding onto my hands with a firm, unwavering grip. His knuckles were white from the effort; surely I would have bruises, but I could no more disengage than I could walk away.

We sat together in the back garden, our hands clasped, and the warmth of the sun slowly left the untended place. It grew cold and dark, but still we sat, until he cleared his throat and finally spoke.

"When are you due to return?"

"I've been sending Ron a patronus every night at ten," I answered.

He turned in his seat and moved forward slightly until our knees met. I realised with a pounding, unsteady heart that I could have found his mouth if I were to tilt my head just high enough – I could have placed my lips on his, given him comfort, offered him a reprieve. And it seemed like it was what he needed – when I gathered enough courage to meet his gaze, Snape's eyes were fixed upon where one sharp canine was sinking into my lower lip.

When he opened his mouth, I held my breath. "Coming here was a very foolish thing to do. You could've been wrong."

"I could have," I allowed quietly. "But I wasn't."

His smile was soft and wry, but it was there, tilting his thin lips just slightly to the left. "I did not wish to be alone today. And I wasn't."

Unsure of myself, I smiled faintly. "No."

"You came," he stated. "For the funeral, and for me."

"I did." I wet my lips and dared to push myself closer.

"I am glad of it," he murmured. "If it was to be anyone at all, I am glad that it was… _is_ you."

"Are you?" I gave a short huff of disbelief. "Do you want me here?"

"Oh," he sighed, his shoulders sagging as he leant forward to rest his forehead on my shoulder. I let out a long breath and nudged him once with my cheek then slowly disentangled one hand and stroked it over his head of fine, silken black hair. "I do want you here," he said. "I do. Very much."

Gods… I could smell him – the staleness of the cigarettes, the clean tang of his hair. His breath was warm; it hit my skin of my neck in gentle, measured waves. The rest of his body stayed stiff and tense, but the trusting way in which he leant on my shoulder, the heavy weight of his forehead, was welcome.

It came to me then that I seemed to be completely at peace with his closeness, despite never experiencing it before.

I didn't want him to move.

Still, after a handful of minutes, he pulled away just far enough and—

"Thank you."

"Oh, gods," I whispered, then laughed breathlessly, for I now knew what it was to feel the softness of his thin lips pressed to my cheek. He kissed my cheek again and I sighed with the pleasure of it, turning instinctively to search for his lips, hoping against all hope that he would take pity on me and kiss me full on the mouth.

I saw his flushed cheeks and the firm set of his lips, and when his eyes met mine, I frowned, unable to understand the flatness there, the remoteness that—

"I apologise, Hermione. _Obliviate._ "


End file.
